


Keep Your Feathers Clean

by toyhto



Series: Trouble [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arthur is an angel, Established Relationship, M/M, this is a sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 20:16:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20570258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: This is a sequel to 'Trouble', in which Eames is trouble and Arthur is his guardian angel. You might want to read that first. If you don't, just let me tell you that SPOILER ALERT they fall in love. Who would've guessed.





	Keep Your Feathers Clean

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to 'Trouble', in which Eames is trouble and Arthur is his guardian angel. You might want to read that first. If you don't, just let me tell you that SPOILER ALERT they fall in love. Who would've guessed.

“Arthur? _Arthur?_ Where’re you?”  
  
“I’m right here,” Arthur says, appearing on the bed.  
  
Eames stops at the bathroom doorway, holding his toothbrush and staring at Arthur with slightly disapproving face. “Darling, what’ve I told you about disappearing when we’re trying to have sex?”  
  
“We weren’t trying to have sex,” Arthur says, “we were going to have sex after you finished brushing your teeth. And I was gone for maybe two seconds.”  
  
“I don’t like it when I think about sex and you just disappear,” Eames says. “You know that.”  
  
“I had a headache. That fixed it.”  
  
Eames sighs, his shoulders slumping a little. “Have you been reading poetry at night _again?_ Darling, I told you you’ve got to turn the light on for that. It’s not good for your eyes to squint in the dark.”  
  
“I didn’t want to wake you up.”  
  
“You could’ve gone to the guestroom. I know you love that terrible grey armchair.”  
  
“I like being around you.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Eames says, “it’s your job and all that.”  
  
“I didn’t mean that,” Arthur says, hoping he wouldn’t have appeared naked. It just seemed more convenient a moment ago. Eames would’ve ended up undressing him in a minute anyway. But sometimes Eames makes him talk about things that are difficult to talk about, and he doesn’t have a clue whether Eames is doing it on purpose or not, or even if Eames knows Arthur doesn’t know how to say these things, and anyway he would like to be fully dressed while he’s uncomfortable. “You know you aren’t just a job for me. I…” He clears his throat. “I _love _you. I’ve told you that.”  
  
“Darling,” Eames says in a quiet voice, “that’s something you might want to repeat to me once in a while.”  
  
“I don’t understand why you can’t just remember it.”  
  
“It’s not really about _remembering _it.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says as convincingly as he can, “I need you to remember that. If I wasn’t an angel, I’d propose to you right away and we would get married, maybe a nice little wedding in the country-side, but if you wanted to invite all your relatives, I wouldn’t mind.”  
  
“Arthur, I’ve told you many times that you’ve got to stop watching Jane Austen movies,” Eames says, “or maybe just update your idea of romance a little. I don’t need you to propose, although I’d be very curious to see how you’d do it.”  
  
“You’re not just a job to me.”  
  
Eames stands at the doorway for a few more seconds, then turns and goes to the bathroom, spits in the sink and washes his face. When he comes back to the bedroom, he’s already pushing his underpants to his knees. “I know I’m not just a job. I just need to hear it sometimes. Now, where were we when you decided to fuck off?”  
  
“You mean, where were we when you decided you needed to brush your teeth,” Arthur says, raising his hand and reaching for the back of Eames’ neck. Eames crawls closer to him on the bed and he tries to smoothen the sheets that crumble, but he can’t concentrate properly. Eames smells of toothpaste and, underneath, of Eames.  
  
“Kiss me,” Eames says.  
  
Arthur kisses him. Then he takes Eames in his arms, drags him out of the bed and lifts him against the door. Gently, of course. Eames wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulders and Arthur keeps him up on the wall, biting at his neck a little until he shivers.  
  
“You’re incredibly strong.”  
  
“I know,” Arthur says.  
  
“I never thought I’d like it.”  
  
“I never thought I’d fall in love with a human.”  
  
“Stop talking.”  
  
“_You _are talking.”  
  
“You could probably fuck me right here,” Eames says, a little out of breath, but not enough to make a lack of oxygen an actual concern, “like this, hold me against the wall and just have me, and you wouldn’t even look _tired_, you goddamn bastard –“  
  
“I could,” Arthur says. He has, and he’s quite certain Eames remembers that_._ But apparently Eames likes it when Arthur says obvious things aloud. “I could fuck you right here and I wouldn’t even get breathless. But I thought you’d want to go slow today. You said you were tired. I thought, maybe we could do it in bed, lying on our sides.”  
  
“That sounds great, too,” Eames says. “I can’t decide. And anyway, I’m going to need a bit more foreplay. I’m still kind of wondering what we’re going to get Philippa for her birthday. I can’t believe Cobb invited us.”  
  
“He likes me.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “god knows why because you always tell him to start being a responsible human being. Darling?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Eames sighs, letting the back of his head drop against the wall. Arthur tightens his grip on Eames. “_Darling,_” Eames says.  
  
Arthur clears his throat. “Really? _Again?_”  
  
“I just thought -,” Eames says and swallows the rest of it. He’s drawing a circle in between Arthur’s shoulder blades. “It’s been a while.”  
  
“I feel so weird about it,” Arthur says. “It’s almost like you’re fantasizing about having sex with an angel.”  
  
“But I _am,_” Eames says in a resigned voice. “And may I remind you about how many times I have played James Bond in bed with you?”  
  
“That’s not the same thing. You aren’t actually James Bond.”  
  
Eames takes a deep breath and wriggles a little, so Arthur lets him down on the floor. “Fine,” Eames says. “I get it. I really understand why you feel weird about it. It’s okay. We can do something else. So, slowly in bed sounds perfect –“  
  
“I’ll do it.”  
  
Eames grins at him. “Really?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Now?”  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says, and there they are. He shifts on his feet, trying to adjust, even though the wings don’t really have _weight._ It’s just that they don’t belong to this human body he’s wearing. Actually, they don’t belong to any kind of a body, but Eames seems completely incapable of understanding that, so Arthur has kind of given up trying to explain. He doesn’t have wings. But for Eames, once in a while, he does, and they’re white and fluffy and big and move a little on their own. They’re just like Eames wants them to be.  
  
And Arthur always drops a few feathers. It’s ridiculous. But the look on Eames’ face when he wakes up in the morning and there’re white soft feathers in bed -  
  
Arthur doesn’t resent wearing wings. Not at all. It’s ridiculous, but almost everything about his life with Eames is ridiculous, if he thinks about it too much. Usually he just tries not to think. He especially tries not to think about the sad stuff, including the fact that Eames is going to die. In fifty years, statistically speaking. And when he can’t help thinking about everything he doesn’t want to think about, he either talks about it with Eames, which is surprisingly nice and usually ends up with kissing and a nice movie, or asks Eames to fuck him in their bed like they’re James Bond and one of his enemies and they’ve just almost killed each other and then met afterwards, totally coincidentally, and ended up banging each other’s brains out, as Eames might say. That usually ends up with Arthur almost drifting to sleep. _Almost_, because he can’t sleep. He’s an angel, after all.  
  
Things are fine with Eames. That’s what Arthur keeps telling himself and it’s an understatement. Things are marvelous. Things are miraculous. He’s happier than he remembers ever being and it’s absolutely terrifying, but he thinks he’s dealing with it quite well.  
  
“Can I touch them?” Eames asks now, staring at Arthur’s wings instead of his face. Typical.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Thank you,” Eames says absurdly, because the wings are for Eames. Of course Eames can touch them. Arthur stays still when Eames closes the distance in between them, raises his hand and runs his fingertips on the feathers. It tickles. “I love you, Arthur,” Eames says.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Just say it back, you idiot.”  
  
“I love you, too.”  
  
“I want to lie on my back,” Eames says, coming so close to Arthur that their legs get entangled and Eames’ warm human skin is everywhere on Arthur’s. Arthur loves this and Eames knows that, too. Eames is still stroking Arthur’s wings and Arthur even forgets about the tickling. “So that I can see your wings. And face. But especially wings. Is it okay, darling? Can we do that?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says and kisses him. “In bed?”  
  
“Yeah. And could you –“  
  
Eames likes Arthur to flap his wings when either one of them is about to come. At least Eames still has enough sense in him to realize that’s just _ridiculous_. That must be why he doesn’t ask and keeps staring at Arthur instead.  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says finally. “Of course. Do you want me to carry you there?”  
  
“No, I’ll go myself,” Eames says. He climbs onto the bed and settles on his back, just lying there when Arthur comes closer to him. Arthur knows that the light in the room is reflecting nicely on his wings. He knows it, because he makes it happen. And it’s definitely worth it, because Eames lets him push his knee in between Eames’ thighs, not saying a word, just staring at the wings and breathing heavily.  
  
“I’m going to do this slow,” Arthur says.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says. “Go on. Are you _sure_ these aren’t your real wings?”  
  
“I don’t have wings,” Arthur says, pushing one finger very carefully inside Eames. This part always seems a little tricky, and the last thing he wants is to harm Eames. Of course, he sometimes performs a few tiny miracles on the way.  
  
“So you keep telling me,” Eames says, and then he goes on to talking the usual nonsense about how great Arthur is, how lovely, and it always makes Arthur blush, which makes Arthur blush a little more. He’s _millions of years old_. He’s not supposed to _blush _when a good-looking and utterly charming human male compliments him in bed. Maybe a few hundred thousand years ago, but not now.  
  
But sometimes he almost forgets he’s not a ten thousand years old kid anymore and that he’s been in love before and that other creatures all around the universe have been in love countless of times during the history of everything. Sometimes, he realizes he’s thinking that they’re special, Eames and him. What they have, no one else has never had and never will. It feels like only Arthur of all angels has, by accident, ended up getting to hold something very fragile and irreplaceable in his metaphorical hands and all he can think about is that he can’t drop it. And at the same time, he’s happier than he thought was possible.  
  
And Eames is so _alive. _When Arthur touches him, runs his palms on Eames chest and stomach, up and down, reaches in between Eames thighs and bends his fingers that are inside Eames, the blood runs in the veins under Eames’ skin anywhere Arthur touches, and Eames breathes and breathes and breathes and one day, he will stop. But not today. And to be with someone who has blood in his veins and who’s going to stop breathing one day…  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, breathing hard and reaching for Arthur’s face, “you fucking idiot, you’re thinking about something melodramatic again. I know that look. You’re supposed to fuck me.”  
  
“I thought we were taking it slow.” Arthur has three fingers inside Eames and he’s been flapping his wings lazily, and Eames hasn’t complained. Until now.  
  
“Not this slow,” Eames says. “I want you. In me._ Please_ –“  
  
Arthur does what he’s been asked to and flaps his wings a few times. Just because he loves Eames. And there’re millions of things he especially loves about Eames, but this is one of them: Eames slowly coming unraveled when Arthur’s making love to him. When Eames starts calling his name again, Arthur closes his fingers around Eames’ cock, which is what Eames wants Arthur to call his penis for some reason. It’s incredible how Eames loses control. It’s incredible how Eames grabs Arthur’s shoulders and holds onto them, closes his eyes, bites his lip, squeezes his fingers on Arthur’s shoulders and tells him to keep his feathers clean.  
  
Wait.  
  
“What?” Arthur says and stops.  
  
“Don’t stop,” Eames says, quite desperately. “I just meant… I’m going to… I’m going to come, and you don’t want to… you’ve got to keep your feathers clean.”  
  
“They are _clean_,” Arthur says, trying to find the rhythm again. “And these aren’t _real _wings.”  
  
“They’re so soft,” Eames says, “so fucking soft. You don’t want to have my cum in them.”  
  
“I don’t see how that’d be a considerable risk.”  
  
“I was just trying to… warn you…” Eames says, and then he comes.  
  
Later, Arthur gets rid of the wings and Eames doesn’t complain, or perhaps Eames doesn’t remember how to form proper sentences. Then Eames flips them around and Arthur lets him, because he loves this, too, he loves the way Eames pushes him gently against the mattress as if they don’t both know who is an angel and who is merely a human with very limited physical strength. Eames is so smug sometimes, especially when he knows he’s wrong. It’s infuriating and perplexing and so charming. Arthur can’t believe he’d ever get tired of Eames. Not in fifty years, at least. Not a chance.  
  
“Darling,” Eames says, his fingers inside Arthur, his other hand stroking everywhere on Arthur’s skin, just the way Arthur wants it, “darling?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says.  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“Can you come closer?” Arthur asks.  
  
“Sure,” Eames says, shifting closer. “We can cuddle afterwards.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“I can lie on you if you want.”  
  
“Perfect,” Arthur says, closing his eyes.  
  
“But for now,” Eames says, “do you want me to go slower? Faster? Something different? Maybe a blow job?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, “no, thank you. This is great.”  
  
“You’re so easy to please.”  
  
“No, I’m not. Not at all. Eames?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Can you hold my hand?”


End file.
